


Worshipping at the Altar of Your Thighs

by Emerald Embers (emeraldembers)



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Anal Fingering, Bathing/Washing, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Human/Vampire Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 16:57:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3297683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emeraldembers/pseuds/Emerald%20Embers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandy brings home a meal he plans to savour for a long, long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worshipping at the Altar of Your Thighs

It has been a long, long time since Sandy has taken interest in feeding. Centuries have passed since he turned, blood turning sluggish and hardening in his veins, and he has no true need to replenish it. His hunger has disappeared in favour of an appetite, and despite all appearances, he has never been particularly greedy.

It is why the human he has brought home with him is unique. Pitch is a physically gorgeous creature, long and leggy, all sharp, feral angles and dark hair contrasting against pale skin. His voice is music to Sandy's ears. He's intelligent and interesting.

He smells like Heaven. Like the land of milk and honey. Like the photo of a spice market, thoughts of cinnamon and ginger and nutmeg and turmeric, jeweled and embroidered fabric, sun-baked sands and freezing, silent nights.

Sandy doesn't need breath, but he could barely gather enough to speak to Pitch at first, wishing for the days when privacy meant more than two feet of space from others. Luring him back to his apartment had been easy, Pitch seeking comfort of a very human nature and Sandy willing to give it, and once the door had closed behind them both Sandy drew Pitch into a kiss, scratching Pitch ever so lightly with his teeth and letting the chemicals in his saliva get to work.

Pitch has tried sitting, slumping, and stretching out on Sandy's sofa but can't seem to make himself comfortable; it's a discomfort Sandy is happy to enjoy, knowing its origin, and Pitch looks over at him with eyes that are anything but afraid and asks, "Did you slip something in my drink?"

Sandy shakes his head and smiles, squeezing fresh orange juice into a jug before setting it inside the refrigerator to cool for later, but he enjoys honesty and when he crosses the room to stroke a hand through Pitch's hair and watch him arch into the touch, he says, "Not into your drink. I've given you something you'll remember."

Pitch's eyes close and he tilts his head, rubs it against Sandy's palm, mouth sliding open in a vague kiss, and Sandy is sorely tempted to push his fingers into Pitch's mouth and watch him suck on them.

He resists, having different plans. He wants Pitch's scent as clean as he can get it, wants to rid him of the remnants of deodorant and cologne, to rid him of the smell of the city, the smell of other humans.

"I'm going to wash you," Sandy says, and Pitch nods, lets Sandy lift him from the sofa without questioning why someone shorter than him can do so with ease.

Pitch strips with Sandy's help once they're in the bathroom, and he straddles Sandy's lap, not hard, but desperately aroused, his fingers tangling in Sandy's hair and eyes glazed. "I can feel everything," Pitch says, and Sandy turns on the taps for the bath, letting the room fill with steam. Pitch's fingers tighten their grip, and he rocks his hips against Sandy's, humming a vague tune against Sandy's ear.

Sandy has control of his appetite, but for a moment he wants to forget about that control and pin Pitch to the floor then and there, to feast on this divine meal set before him.

The knowledge that he can preserve that meal as long as he wants stays his hunger, and he strips down to the waist, wraps his arms around Pitch and holds him close as the bath fills, knowing Pitch craves that skin-to-skin contact as surely as a starving man craves food.

Sandy turns off the taps and helps Pitch into the water, knowing it is just a little too hot for comfort now, but not so hot as to be unbearable. He wants to draw out each moment, and a bath cooling from too hot to just right is preferable to one cooling from just right to lukewarm.

Pitch laughs, almost giggles as he holds out his arms for Sandy to wash, and Sandy obliges, sponges a mild soap up and down each of them, concentrating on hands, wrists, elbows and armpits, anywhere scent collects most. Pale blue veins stand out against white skin, puncture marks in the crook of each elbow from blood tests or blood donations, and he lingers before forcing himself to move on; Pitch's chest and back both require attention, and Sandy hungers for the moment he can wash the legs that drew him in before he caught the scent of their owner.

He isn't sure which is harder to resist - the nape of Pitch's neck when he tilts his head forward for his back to be washed, or the hollow of his throat when he tilts it back for his chest. Pitch knows he's beautiful - Sandy can tell the difference between confidence in a presented appearance and confidence in one's body - and there's a smirk on his face when Sandy starts on his lower half, washing his feet and his calves and the backs of his knees.

"Do you like playing with your toys?" Pitch asks, and up until the last word Sandy thought he was going to say 'food', thought he had guessed despite Pitch's failure to notice how Sandy's reflection isn't carried by the bath water.

Sandy helps Pitch to kneel in the bath and washes each thigh thoroughly and slowly, digging his fingers in where he can feel the pulse beneath Pitch's skin, and watches Pitch's smirk start to fade, replaced by neediness once more.

Pitch is hard by the time Sandy finishes with his ass and crotch, and makes a grumble of complaint when Sandy drains the bath and wraps him in a towel, but the complaint disappears once Sandy strips naked.

Sandy points him to the bedroom, gathers the orange juice from the refrigerator and a glass before joining Pitch, finding him already stretched out on the sheets, one hand around his cock and stroking it lazily.

This human is going to ruin him, but not until he's ruined them first.

He sets the drink down on the bedside table for later, moves to straddle Pitch's hips, taking each of Pitch's hands and pressing them back against the pillow. He wonders how far he can push his luck with this one before they protest - wonders if this one will protest - and he keeps eye contact as he asks, "Has anyone ever tied you up?"

Pitch's hips buck against his own, but he doesn't take that for consent. Pitch shakes his head and licks his lips, flexes his wrists. "I've thought about it. The occasion never arose."

Sandy reaches past Pitch for the straps on his headboard, and he brushes his thumbs across Pitch's wrists before binding each of them in turn, lets Pitch wriggle for a moment to get used to the feeling, to decide if he can cope with it.

Pitch nods, chest rising and falling rapidly, and Sandy helps it to still with a long, long kiss, taking his time learning the texture of Pitch's lips, Pitch's tongue, letting Pitch taste him in turn.

The chemicals in his saliva start taking effect again, Pitch's breathing evening out but his skin heating up, his arms straining against their bonds without truly trying to break free, wanting touch but wanting more than that to be owned.

"What are you?" Pitch asks, and there still isn't fear in his face, not even confusion, just curiosity underneath need. Sandy traces his fingers down Pitch's arms, mapping out veins and pulse points, draws them under and up until he has one hand on Pitch's neck, thumb marking out one of the strongest pulse points of all.

"I think you know," Sandy says, and he lets his teeth show as he smiles, feels the pulse in Pitch's neck beat faster and harder.

"But you're not going to kill me," Pitch says, and Sandy knows he believes it - this time there is a little touch of confusion, but still more curiosity than anything else.

"What fun would that be?" Sandy asks, and he trails his hands lower, pinches nipples that are already hard, listening to the resulting hitch in Pitch's breath. "You can't make more blood if you're dead."

Pitch laughs, and Sandy kisses him again before shifting down the bed to palm the flat of his stomach, to trace his thumbs over each delicious point where the contours of Pitch's hips are visible, to grip and spread Pitch's thighs so he has space to kneel between them.

He's barely finished taking Pitch's cock in his mouth before Pitch comes for the first time, and Sandy swallows him down eagerly, traces the vein and ridges of Pitch's cock with his tongue as he cleans him up, wanting to know every taste Pitch has. It isn't the sweetness of blood, it's bitter and raw, but the salt is familiar and the smell is close.

Pitch looks relaxed and content, and Sandy feels the rush of Pitch's blood settling back into place after orgasm, presses his mouth to the inside of Pitch's thigh, and bites down.

.

Sandy isn't greedy by nature. It doesn't make it any easier for him to heal the bite with a trace of his own blood, to resist draining Pitch dry.

He'd known from the scent that Pitch would be something else, but the moment he bit down, he gripped Pitch so tight there would be bruises in the shape of his fingers around Pitch's thighs, the skin already reddened and swollen. Pitch tasted like everything his smell had promised and more, and it had left Sandy coming untouched, left him wondering how he'd ever survived off such ordinary blood before. There had been special humans before, but while they had been pleasant, this -

\- Pitch is beyond description.

Sandy licks his lips and the healing wound until it has closed entirely and moves back up Pitch's body to cradle Pitch's head in both hands and kiss him, wanting Pitch's tongue in his mouth, wanting all of Pitch in his mouth.

He feels giddy and he feels desolate, peppers more kisses over Pitch's jaw, over his cheek, his eyelids.

"Stay with me," Sandy says, begs, and Pitch nods, only half-aware of what Sandy says and Sandy doesn't care. He needs this. Needs Pitch, needs every inch of him he can take for his own.

Pitch's hips rock up against Sandy's again, and Sandy nods to himself before grabbing lube from the bedside table and slicking up his hand, wrapping it around Pitch's cock and stroking. Pitch is clearly on the point of oversensitivity, straining and sweating, and Sandy brushes the fingers of his free hand through Pitch's hair, listening to the helpless quick breaths, the gasps and tiny, almost soundless whines. He's reduced Pitch to near incoherency, and it's intoxicating, especially when he's still riding the high of tasting everything Pitch has to offer.

Pitch can't even manage a please when he gets close, or a curse when Sandy lubes up his other hand so he can slide his fingers between Pitch's legs and curve two up inside him, not so much to stretch as to simply offer another point of stimulation.

Pitch sobs when he comes, and as soon as he's finished stroking Pitch through it, Sandy unties his wrists and cleans his own hands with tissues from the bedside table, wraps his arms around Pitch, and holds him close.

The sobbing goes on for a while, and when Pitch comes to, he's shivering and dazed, achingly vulnerable, and Sandy presses kisses into his hair and to his forehead, anywhere the effect of his saliva won't aggravate the situation.

Sandy waits for Pitch's breathing to settle before he pours a glass of orange juice and passes it to him, helping Pitch sit up and drink, rubbing his back with soothing circles.

"Does that always happen?" Pitch asks, seeming ashamed, and Sandy nods, presses a kiss to Pitch's cheek.

"It's not uncommon. Certainly not at first."

Pitch finishes his drink, pours himself another half glass and finishes that too before he slumps down on the sheets, shutting his eyes. "Did you mean it?" Pitch asks, words slurred with exhaustion.

"Mean what?"

"To stay," Pitch explains, or partially explains, yawning. "Do you want me to?"

Sandy tugs the sheets out from under Pitch so he can cover them both up, trap Pitch's warmth in alongside the warmth he's borrowed from Pitch by drinking, and pulls him in close, his arm fitting around Pitch's slim chest easily. "Yes. Please, yes."

Pitch smiles, and it's the last Sandy hears from him before his breathing turns into a soft, gentle snore.

Pitch is going to ruin him, and he looks forward to every second of it.


End file.
